


Coyote, Wolf, and Fox

by geekBoots



Category: Trilogia del dollaro | Dollars Trilogy
Genre: Drama, Gen, Western
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-07 22:06:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6826651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekBoots/pseuds/geekBoots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Man With No Name runs into trouble with the notorious gang of bandits run by Delgado "The Fox" in the town of San Bravo after killing one of the gang members. He becomes a kind of hero for the town and their hopes for salvation ride on his skill as a gunman. But can he make it out alive?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at writing a western ever. I have tried to capture the magic of the old spaghetti westerns, and I hope I've been able to replicate that at least a little bit. Please let me know if I have managed it through your kudos or comments.
> 
> I've seen others give casting directions as to which characters should be "played" by what actors in your mind, but I think that if you aren't able to figure it out, I'm not doing my job correctly.
> 
> Critique, suggestions, and ideas are as always very welcome! If I like your ideas enough, I may include them in the story! I promise I won't be offended if you have something constructively critical to say. 
> 
> And of course, thank you, thank you, thank you for reading! :D

The lonely cries of a pack of coyotes cut through the air, interrupting the steady, quiet beat of hooves in sand. 

The horse kicked and pulled at the bit in its mouth, eyes rolling. Its rider, bent against the hot desert winds, leaned further forward and put a hand on the horse's mane, pulling back on the reins to bring the animal to a stop. 

He looked up from under the brim of his hat at a line of dark specks on the horizon.

The town of San Bravo.


	2. 1:

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The coyote makes his entrance to the town of San Bravo.

The saloon's ill-oiled saloon doors swung squeaking open and the floorboards creaked in protest as dusty boots sidled slowly over them.

The man the boots belonged to was just as worn as they were, from his faded poncho to his battered hat, which sported a number of holes doubtless made by close calls in gunfights. Carved into his stoic face were lines etched by the bright desert sun, and even in the dusk of the saloon he squinted as if against the blinding outdoor light.

Most of the various patrons of the establishment looked up hurriedly at the stranger and returned quickly to their hushed conversations.

The men at the bar did not.

The one who was swaying slightly bore a bushy mustache and crumbs of food in his beard, and stains on his filthy vest to match.

He stared at the newcomer with outright disdain.

The two flanking him looked as hardened as he did.

One took a swig of beer from his tall glass, lifting the glass to his uneven mouth with his left hand. He looked the stranger up and down, smirking slightly.

The other man whose pinstriped back was to the stranger twisted in his seat and shot a stormy glance at the newcomer, revealing a gruesome scar along the side of his face. He shifted so that he had a better view of the man and his back was no longer to the stranger.

Lefty leaned over and whispered something in the drunk man's ear, and he burst out laughing.

The newcomer narrowed his eyes even further.

Finally, the drunk man smiled a predator's grin and raised his glass to the stranger, laughing softly.

The stranger turned, and approached the bar, turning his gaze onto the barman.

“Whiskey.”

The barman nodded and set a shot glass down on the polished wood of the bar. He procured a bottle from below the bar, and mutely poured. He began to return the bottle to its place, but the stranger held up a hand.

The barman slowly set the bottle next to the glass, looking with narrowed eyes at the man.

The stranger reached into the saddlebag slung over his shoulder and dug free a large, gleaming gold coin. He let it fall clinking onto the counter.

The barman's eyes widened, but he snatched up the coin, and swiftly returned to wiping down the already-clean glasses against the back counter, trying not to look at anyone as he did so.

The newcomer drained his glass and refilled it.

The drunk man leaned past his friend and leered at the newcomer.

“Hey, _amigo_! Where'd you get that coin? A drifter with that kind of money? That just ain't right.”

The stranger took a sip from his glass and shot a sideways glance at the men.

“ _Amigo_ , you must be one _loco_ son of a bitch to be carrying that kind of cash through places like this! There's bandits around, you know.”

The drunk and his friends cracked up.

Still, the stranger said nothing.

The drunk staggered over to the other. Breath reeking of alcohol and body reeking of sweat, he leaned into the stranger's face.

“Hey, you bastard, don't you talk to us?”

Chuckling, he punched the silent one's shoulder, slopping whiskey over the side of the glass  
and over the man's hand.

The newcomer set the glass down onto the bar and shook his dripping hand, glaring from beneath the brim of his hat; his gaze traveling slowly, menacingly from his now-empty glass to the drunken man before him.

With his left hand, he flipped his poncho over his shoulder.

His right hand hovered next to the gun strapped to his hip.

The drunk took a few steps back, putting his hands up in mock-defense, still laughing.

The stranger remained still as death, staring the other man down.

The drunk began lowering his hands, moving rail-like in the sudden silence. He suddenly made a move for his own pistol tucked away in his belt, and clumsily drew—

The stranger shot.

The drunk's eyes widened and he pitched forward, scarlet spilling down the front of his vest.

The stranger glanced up from the body at the man's friends.

In a soft, calm voice he spoke.

“Anyone else?”

There was a moment of shock and silence as the harsh scents of blood and burnt gunpowder filled the room and then Pinstripes burst out, “You killed Gutierrez! You son of a bitch. Delgado ain't gonna like that.”

Lefty, no longer grinning his lopsided smile, knelt by Gutierrez' body for a moment, and stood again.

He pulled at the man in the pinstriped shirt.

“Come on, Flores. Let's get outta here.”

Flores stepped carefully over the corpse still bleeding onto the barroom floor, all the while glaring daggers at the man in the poncho.

The man calmly holstered his gun once more and reached inside his vest, his hand emerging with a cigarillo. He reached into another pocket and took out a match, and after striking it on his jeans, lit the stubby cigarillo.

The surviving two made their way toward the door and quickly shoved it open, but before the door could swing shut, Flores caught hold of it.

The stranger's hand hovered cautiously over the holster once again, but Flores simply spat, “You wait! The Fox is gonna get you good,” and fled.

The man poured another shot of whiskey.


End file.
